


make a lot of money (and be dead inside)

by tiigi



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Larry is still a criminal, M/M, Mentors in Crime, Prostitution, alternative universe, is that a thing?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:53:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26160676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiigi/pseuds/tiigi
Summary: The first time Larry sees the kid, it’s a few weeks before their big job.
Relationships: Mr. Orange/Mr. White (Reservoir Dogs)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 76





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Me crying over another 90s movie? More likely than you’d think :’)

The first time Larry sees the kid, it’s a few weeks before their big job. Joe got them all in one place for a meeting - a fucking bore, but you don’t argue with Joe Cabot - and ran through the plan. In, out, don’t get caught. Seems pretty simple to Larry.

But that’s where he sees the kid. In the throng of people crowded around the bar, he stands with his back to the wall, watching everyone mill around and make conversation and slowly get more and more drunk. He looks young - too young to be in here, definitely - but he’s about the same height as Larry. He just looks small, Larry decides, because he’s so fucking skinny. He looks like he hasn’t had a proper meal in years, and his clothes are tatty, dirty, too big so that they hang off him in all the wrong places. Larry observes the gentle slope of his shoulder, the sharp jut of his jawline, and thinks actually, maybe, it’s a smart move. The kid is obviously only here for one thing.

Joe already left the bar, platitudes and weighty ‘good lucks’ thrown over his shoulder. Mr Brown and Mr Blonde seem to be engaged in some sort of bet and Larry doesn’t particularly want to draw their attention to the kid anyway, but Eddie is watching him with a careful eye. When he follows Larry’s gaze to the kid in the corner he throws his head back and laughs.

“Uh oh,” he says, shaking his head. He’s still grinning, and it’s enough to get Larry smiling too, albeit a little ruefully. “Don’t tell me you’re eyeing up Freddy over there.”

“What’s he doing here?” Larry asks. It’s a stupid question - mainly because he already knows the answer, everyone here does - but he doesn’t want to answer Eddie’s question. The kid is… well, exactly that. He’s far too young to be in a dangerous place like this, with dangerous people like  _ them,  _ and he clearly isn’t doing too well for himself anyway. Across the room, despite the dim lighting and the dancing shadows, Larry can just about make out the splayed handprint of a bruise around Freddy’s neck.

“This is a good place for him.” Eddie shrugs, no big deal. “He can hook here, and if the police come then he’ll be a real low priority, you know what I mean?”

Larry does. There are about a dozen high profile criminals in here, Larry included; enough that, in the event of an unexpected raid, Freddy would be able to slip away unnoticed.

“He’s good.” Eddie is still watching him, eyes careful and assessing. “Or so I’ve heard. If you like that thing. I don’t swing that way, y’know.” His eyes dart to Mr Blonde for just a second, still deep in conversation, before returning to Larry. It would be imperceptible if not for Larry’s years of training in noticing this stuff. 

“Of course not.” Larry just nods. Nice Guy Eddie Cabot’s no fag, not like Larry. If he  _ was,  _ his father would disown him, so it’s a good thing he’s not.

“You want me to call him over?” Eddie asks with a leer. He’s enjoying himself way too much, and Larry feels a flush creeping up his chest when the kid looks over and catches his eye, flashing a toothy grin. 

“No, Jesus,” Larry shakes his head, shakes the thoughts away. “No, don’t do that. This– what’s he doing here? Doesn’t he have parents?”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Who fuckin’ knows? Doesn’t really matter either way, does it? He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t need to be.”

A couple on the other side of the bar get up to go, and they leave a few burnt chips on their plate. Larry watches as Freddy darts over, looks from side to side and snatches them off the table. Larry winces.

“He looks hungry,” he murmurs, somewhat uselessly.

“Nah, man,” Eddie shrugs, waves his concern away with a dismissive hand. “That’s just Freddy. He’s always looked like that.” Which isn’t at all reassuring. Larry considers going over there, telling him to go home, to go somewhere,  _ anywhere  _ else. Considers buying him a meal, getting him a hotel room somewhere, somewhere warm and soft and clean to sleep.

Then, before he can do any of that, Freddy is obscured by the broad figure of a man in a suit, about Larry’s age, maybe a bit older. They’re too far away for Larry to hear any of what’s said, but before he knows what’s happening they’re leaving together, side by side, shoulders brushing, and Larry feels sick.

So that’s the first time he sees the kid. 

*

The second time is a little more damning. Larry probably shouldn’t even be there, but he’s running from a lift gone wrong and he darts down the first alleyway he sees.

It was just a small one, the lift, just a grocery store, to keep Larry busy while he waits for Joe’s big job. Nothing should have gone wrong because Larry is a professional, dammit, but of course it had. Someone had seen him, he’d started running and hadn’t looked back.

And then he turns into the alley near the bar and sees Freddy, on his knees.

Larry stops in his tracks. 

The man standing over Freddy startles bad enough that he almost trips over, what with his pants down by his ankles. He doesn’t even look back to see if Larry is someone he needs to be scared of, just yanks up his trousers and runs off. Freddy watches him go with a dejected expression, and then turns to Larry with a scowl.

“Shit, man,” he says, wiping his mouth messily with the back of his hand. “You just cost me twenty bucks. He was almost done as well.”

Larry bristles. “May I suggest finding a more private place in the future, then?”

“Oh yeah, sure, I’ll be sure to check into my private fuckin’ hotel suite next time I’m  _ sucking dick for money.”  _ He stumbles to his feet and brushes gravel from his legs, the knees of his jeans worn so thin that they’re starting to rip. His trainers are tatty and stained with mud, the sole peeling away from the material. 

Larry flushes when he realises he’s practically been looking the kid up and down, ashamed but not wanting to appear so. “Try a toilet cubicle or something, I don’t fucking know.” He rolls his eyes. “This is a public path. One of these days you’ll get the cops along here.”

Freddy rocks on his heels and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his baggy leather jacket. “You a cop?” He asks, head tilted curiously. “You have to tell me if you are.”

“You know that’s not true, don’t you?” Larry smiles despite himself. There’s something endearing about this kid, his clumsiness and his brashness. He’s a mouthy little shit, but Larry can’t deny that he knows how to sell himself. He’s pretty, with his pink lips wet with spit and his hair falling softly across his forehead. Larry wants to reach out and touch.

But he can’t. Obviously. 

“So, are you?” Freddy prompts, walking backwards, never once taking his eyes off Larry. Larry follows him, mesmerised, drawn along like a magnet. 

“Not a cop.” 

“Sounds like something a cop would say,” Freddy smirks in Larry’s direction, eyes dark and seductive. God, he’s beautiful, the kind of movie star good looks that he’ll grow into. Give it a few years and a few extra pounds and he’ll be giving supermodels a run for their money. 

“Mmm, you’ll just have to take my word for it.” They’re heading towards the bar without Larry even realising it. It’s getting dark now, just gone nine, and Freddy is shivering despite the heavy jacket he’s wearing. Larry should do something chivalrous like offer the kid his coat, but he doesn’t want to send Freddy the wrong idea. 

Freddy pauses as soon as the street opens out in front of him. There’s a crowd lingering out the front and Larry can practically see the gears turning in Freddy’s mind. Plenty of middle aged men there - plenty of guys that look like Larry - so he could probably make a decent amount.

Sure enough, Freddy turns to him with a crooked grin. “Well,” he says. “Thanks for escorting me here. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Ha, ha,” Larry deadpans. He’s reaching into his pocket before he can stop himself, finding his wallet and thumbing through a few notes. Freddy notices and his eyebrows twitch together: a half frown, before he catches himself and smoothes his expression into nonchalance.

“Are you…” he trails off. “I mean, do you want to–”

“No.” Larry’s vehemence is maybe a little over the top, but Jesus, he doesn’t know how he’d refuse if Freddy actually offered himself up like that. It’s not that he has any problem with what Freddy does - he  _ doesn’t,  _ kid’s got to make a living somehow, that’s just reality - but he doesn’t want to be another faceless client that throws a twenty dollar bill down at Freddy’s feet when he’s finished. 

He also doesn’t want Freddy to know how fucking much he wants him, but that’s beside the point.

“Here,” Larry holds out thirty dollars, twenty for the client he scared off and ten just because the kid needs to eat a warm meal tonight or he might pass out. “Sorry for earlier. I promise I’ll check before I take any new shortcuts from now on.”

Freddy’s expression, for a long, silent moment, is unreadable. Larry worries that maybe he’s upset him, offended him somehow, but he still reaches out to take the money with a slight tremble in his fingers. When he looks up at Larry, his eyes are fond and searching.

“It’s White, isn’t it? Mr White.” He asks, crumpling the bills and poking them down the sides of his beat up trainers. He hurries to continue. “Sorry if that’s creepy. I’m not, like, a stalker or anything. I saw you the other day, is all. Some of the guys mentioned you. Uh, when I asked, that is. Not like they were talking about you or anything. Sorry, I’m–”

“Kid, relax,” Larry says with a laugh. He’s attractive  _ and  _ cute. Larry could cry. “You’re right. I’m Mr White. And you’re Freddy, right?”

“Yeah.” Freddy holds out a hand to shake, and Larry takes it in his. Freddy’s skin feels cold against his own, but so smooth, his fingers long and slender and his nails bitten down to the quick. 

“Thanks, Mr White,” Freddy says, smiling, when he draws his hand back. “For real. You didn’t have to.”

Larry shrugs. “Take a night off,” he suggests, not even totally sarcastic. “Kick your feet up. Have a fuckin’ bubble bath.”

Freddy bites his bottom lip, looks up at Larry from under a delicate fan of eyelashes, and Larry doesn’t know how much of it is a play and how much is real. “Sure thing,” he says. “I’ll think of you. In the bath.”

After that, he spins on his heel and slouches over to the crowd, disappearing almost instantly. They suck him in like he’s their next fucking meal, welcome like a lion’s den.

_ Jesus Christ,  _ Larry thinks, still reeling.  _ This kid is gonna be the fucking death of me.  _

*

There’s a hand sneaking into his pocket, and before the little thief can get away with it, Larry latches onto his wrist and spins around.

“Gotcha,” he says, rubbing his thumb back and forth over Freddy’s pulse, over the raised, bruise-blue veins in his wrist. “Nice try. You’re getting better every day. I’ll make a pickpocket out of you yet.”

“Fuck, man,” Freddy grins and shakes his hair out, lets it hang over his face like a curtain. He drops the few items he managed to snatch from Larry’s coat pocket back into Larry’s open, waiting palm with a rueful smile: a quarter, a stick of gum, some lint. “I swear you must be cheating. No way you heard me coming. I took my shoes off and everything.”

Larry raises his eyebrows - impressed maybe, maybe saddened - and looks down. Sure enough, Freddy’s shoes are missing and his toes curl against the bare floor. He’s not wearing socks.

“Didn’t hear you coming, kid,” Larry explains in between drags on his cigarette. “Felt you. If you snag the fabric even a little bit, you gotta assume you’ve been made. You get the fuck outta there if that happens. It’s the safest way. There’s always another sucker out there with too much cash in their wallet, unless you’re in jail for petty theft.”

They’re wise words. Larry has seen a few too many kids like Freddy - good kids, tough ones - who’ve been fucked over by the system before they even had the chance to show their full potential. Makes him sad, makes him sick. Maybe that’s why he’s taken such a shine to Freddy– Larry just wants to take care of him, and he’s never felt like that before. Maybe this is all some kind of fucked up atonement.

Freddy doesn’t seem bothered by Larry’s words though. He nods slowly, lips moving ever so slightly as he takes the advise into account. Then he’s smiling up at Larry and shrugging his shoulders,  _ what can you do? _

“I’ll get it next time,” he says, sliding into the seat opposite Larry. “Just you wait. The deal’s still on, by the way, you don’t get to back out now. I get to keep it if you don’t notice.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Larry rolls his eyes. The truth of the matter is that he’ll probably have to relent some of his personal belongings before this job is done. Freddy’s turning out to be a good theif - he was even before Larry’s halfhearted training - and pretty soon he’ll be able to slip past even Larry’s defences. The thought is troubling.

The others aren’t around tonight. Larry feels stupid saying he only came out to the bar to see Freddy, but that’s the truth of it. There was no meeting, no party; Larry just missed the kid. It’s embarrassing how much the little shit has grown on him these past few days.

“Shit, hand that over would you?” Freddy doesn’t wait for a response, just leans over the table and plucks the cigarette right out from between Larry’s lips like it’s something out of his pocket he’s trying to steal. With his hands flat on the table and his back bent over like that, Freddy’s button up hangs baggy and loose away from his body. Larry can see right down his shirt to his chest and then the smooth, ever so slightly concave dip of his belly. He wants to wrap his hands around the kid’s ribcage, hold him tight and safe. Larry  _ aches  _ with the force of that desire.

“Thanks.” Freddy grins again. He holds the cigarette in his mouth with his with his fingers in a loose V shape and sucks on it, blowing smoke out in two thin trails from his nose.

Larry laughs. “Where’d you learn that trick?”

“Friend of a friend,” Freddy smirks, doing it again, cheeks turning pink, delighted with the laugh it draws out of Larry. He’s cute like that, all earnest and eager to please and then shy and desperate to play it cool like Larry can’t see right through him. 

That probably means he learnt it from a trick, Larry realises, and his chest clenches with unfair jealousy. His hands curl into fists underneath the table and he takes a second, takes a breath, opens them out and bites his tongue. 

“Looks real cool, kid,” he tells him, just to see that pretty pink glow of a blush on his face.

“So,” Freddy starts, clearly about to launch into something, and Larry sighs. “You’re doing something, aren't you?”

“Beg your pardon?” Larry says gruffly, eyebrows raised, almost a warning. Freddy powers on though, like he isn’t picking up on Larry’s cues. Or, if he is, he’s ignoring them.

“You’re planning something. Some kind of hit, some kind of job. Right? It’s big, right?”

Larry sits forward in his chair, elbows on the table, steeples his fingers together and rests his chin on his knuckles. “Now why would you say a thing like that?” He asks, all innocent. 

Freddy eyes the other half of Larry’s sandwich, blatantly obvious, until Larry relents and pushes over the table to him. “When you hang around here,” he says, digging into his sandwich happily like it’s the first proper meal he’s had in a week. It probably is. “You recognise these things, man. Big group of you, buncha criminals. Headed by Joe Cabot? You all dressed in suits the first time you ever came here, dude. The  _ same suit.  _ Nothing screams ‘lock me up’ more than four guys in a seedy bar wearing the same suit. Either you’re planning something shady or you all get together once a week to jerk each other off, and forgive me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think Joe Cabot’s a homo.”

As soon as he’s finished his little speech, Freddy leans back in his chair, watching Larry’s expression carefully. He’s proud of himself, the smug bastard, and he has a crumb at the corner of his mouth that’s driving Larry crazy with how much he wants to brush it away with his thumb. 

Larry sits back. “Well, aren’t you a little detective in the making?” He says. He doesn’t know whether to be angry or impressed; the kid’s got balls, he’s at least got that going for him, but in these kind of places, that confidence is what gets you killed. “So… what?”

Freddy’s eyebrows draw together. “Huh?” He says, eloquent. 

“Well,” Larry takes a drag and stubs the cigarette out on the table. Freddy watches carefully, something unreadable in his eyes. “You come in here with this fun little story, you talk to me about jobs and money and criminals in suits. Now what? You done?”

Freddy slumps a little in his seat. He’s embarrassed - Larry has embarrassed him, and he does feel bad about it but at the same time, what had the kid expected? For Larry to just accept it, roll over and admit everything? Joe would kill him. Joe would kill him and then Freddy too, for good measure, just to prove a fucking point.

But still. He feels bad watching the cloud roll across Freddy’s expression, watching his shoulders droop. 

“I dunno, man,” Freddy says, shrugs, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “Was just making conversation. I thought maybe…”

“Maybe what?”

“It’s stupid.”

“Try me.” Larry’s being an asshole here, he knows, being a bully. He should let it drop. He should give the kid some money and point him towards a halfway home and leave him the fuck alone, because he’s bad news and Freddy getting involved with him can only end badly.

But he doesn’t want to. Freddy is so beautiful and funny and whip-smart despite being utterly naive, despite his youthful inexperience, that Larry just doesn’t want to. He’s selfish like that.

Freddy shrugs again, sulking. “I thought maybe I could get in on it.”

Here, Larry does laugh. Not to be mean, but because the thought is just so terrifying that Larry doesn’t want to entertain it. “Kid,” he says. “How old are you? You should be in  _ school.  _ Trust me, the last thing you want to do is get tangled up with Joe Cabot’s gang.”

“You say that like it means anything.” Freddy scowls, and here Larry can see the man he’ll grow into. “You ain’t some paragon of fucking wisdom, okay? So don’t patronise me. If I could be in school, I’d be in fucking school. Don’t tell me what I do and don’t want to do when you don’t have to suck these assholes off for twenty bucks a pop just to have somewhere to sleep at night. Jesus, I thought  _ you– _ but no. Clearly I was wrong.”

He stands up so suddenly that the table rattles. Larry can only watch as he ducks his head, hair falling to cover his eyes. He tries to leave but Larry doesn’t want to see him go, not after that, not when he’s upset and vulnerable as probably about to start work. He grabs Freddy’s wrist.

“Stop,” he says, clear with finality, and Freddy stops. Larry wonders if he’s always this obedient or if Larry is special. He hates how that prospect makes him feel.

“What do you  _ want?”  _ Freddy says, brushing angry tears from his cheeks. He tries tugging his wrist out of Larry’s grasp, but the attempt is weak and pitiful, and it’s probably just to keep up appearances.

“Sorry,” Larry murmurs, wishing they had some privacy, wishing he could get closer. He’d hug the kid, if he could. “Sorry, I’m sorry, kid. Didn’t mean to make you cry. I’m an asshole.”

“Yeah.” Freddy grits his teeth, but his voice still wavers. 

“Hey, listen.” Larry runs the pads of his fingers over Freddy’s racing pulse, steady and slow like he’s trying to calm him down. “Wait here, alright? I’m gonna go pay my tab and then you can come home with me.”

“What?” Freddy’s eyes are wide, worried.

“Not like…” Larry curses under his breath. “Not like that. Just to sleep. You said you didn’t have anywhere to sleep and, shit, I’ve been taking up so much of your time lately that you’re probably missing out on work, right? Maybe I  _ should  _ be paying you.”

“That’s not funny,” Freddy says, dragging his sleeve across his face again like he’s trying to wipe the sadness away. He’s being too harsh, leaving angry red marks on his skin. Larry wants to reach out and stop him, real gentle, but he still hasn't let go of Freddy’s other arm. “You know I’m not… I don’t hang out with you like that. Not because of that. Not with you.”

“I know,” Larry says. “Sorry, kid.”

Freddy hesitates again, looking over his shoulder as though he’ll find guidance at the bar. “I dunno,” he says again. “I really do need to work.”

Larry’s chest tightens, his beard clenches. He’s already smitten. “Come on. One night off. You’ve got a place to sleep tonight, after all.”

“I’d need to start early tomorrow. Not many guys want to get their dicks sucked at nine in the morning, y’know?”

Larry throws a few bills down on the table instead of paying at the bar, because he doesn’t want to let Freddy out of his sight. The odds of the kid running away and never showing his face at the bar again feel astronomically high. 

“If there’s one thing I’ve learnt over the years, kid,” he says. “Is that guys’ll take blowjobs whenever they can get ‘em.”

Freddy grins. “Okay then,” he looks down, up, back to Larry. “Alright.”

*

Larry feels oddly nervous welcoming Freddy into his home. It’s not his  _ real  _ home, of course. Larry doesn’t really have one of those. He’s renting a tiny one bedroom apartment in the city until the job is over, and decorating the place has been the last thing on Larry’s mind. Up until now, that is, because holding the door open for Freddy, he can’t help but notice the empty walls, the bare surfaces. The whole place is cold and uninviting; not the kind of place Larry imagines Freddy will want to return to.

But Freddy doesn’t seem bothered, just wanders around the apartment and runs his fingers over the walls, curious like a baby bird. 

“You live here?” He asks, an eyebrow raised.

“For now. Once the job’s over I’ll be packing up my stuff.”

He sees Freddy looking around with furrowed eyebrows for maybe a couple of seconds, an inquisitive tilt to his head as though he’s asking,  _ what stuff?  _ He doesn’t vocalise the question though, just cocks a hip and gives a cocky smile.

“There is a job, then?”

“You knew that already.”

“Yeah,” Freddy concedes, eyes dark. “But knowing it and hearing you say it are two different things.”

Larry wets his lips, mouth suddenly dry. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess so.”

Larry doesn’t have a spare room but he does have a couch that Freddy can sleep on; his feet will stick over the edge and he might get a crick in his neck, but offering him the bed could give him the wrong idea. Or the right idea– Larry is trying not to think about it. 

“You’re leaving then?” Freddy asks suddenly. Larry stills where he’s leaning over the sofa, cushions bundled in his arms. He hadn’t wanted to think about this, about what it would mean. Yes, he’s leaving: this place, the bar, Freddy. He can never come back here, after the job is done. Not for years anyway. No loose strings, Joe would say.

He’s got to say goodbye to Freddy forever, after this job is done.

“Eventually,” Larry says, careful with his words. He arranges the pillows as nicely as he can on the couch and stuffs a hand into his pocket, awkward. “After the job. Not leaving yet, kid.”

“Where will you go?” The light of the street lamp casts shadows on his face. It makes him look like he’s glowing. “Or are you sworn to secrecy?” His lips twist into a miserable grin.

“I haven’t decided yet. Still thinking on it.” It’s partially true. Larry is thinking California maybe, L.A, somewhere warm.  _ Freddy would love L.A,  _ his traitorous brain supplies, and he blocks it out. 

“Well,” Freddy says, trails off. He’s standing closer now, and Larry didn’t even notice him moving. He brushes his thumb ever so slightly over the back of Larry’s hand where it’s resting on the sofa. “I guess we just have to make the most of it, right? The time we have left, I mean.”

He’s looking at Larry and his eyes are so wide and so beautiful, bright in the darkness of the room. He’s trying so hard to look seductive and it does work, kind of, but mostly he just looks shy and pleading and Larry is mesmerised–

A hand closes around his own. When Larry looks down, Freddy hand disappears into Larry’s coat pocket.

“Gotcha,” Freddy whispers. It startles a bark of laughter out of Larry. 

“Nice distraction technique,” Larry says, cheeks flushed a little red. “You’re getting better every day.”

“Yeah?” The tips of Freddy’s ears go pink. He’s adorable. “I got a good teacher, I guess.”

He’s so close now that Larry could just lean down and kiss him, could rest one hand on the nape of Freddy’s neck, tilt his chin up. It would be so easy to press him up against the wall, take him apart; he bets no one has ever taken proper care of Freddy before. He just  _ wants, _ so much that he can barely breathe.

“You should… you should sleep,” Larry says, mouth dry. Freddy blinks, the spell broken. “You should go to sleep. I’ll set an alarm for tomorrow. Eat what you want from the kitchen. I’ll– see you tomorrow.”

Larry runs out of there so quickly that he doesn’t even hear whether Freddy calls after him or not. He shuts his bedroom door behind him and leans his forehead against it, breathing heavy. Joe was right. It’s always best to stay the fuck away from people when you’re working on a job. Sooner or later you leave, and you leave everything behind, whether you like it or not.

It’s best not to get involved. Larry blew that rule the second he first saw Freddy.


	2. Chapter 2

Freddy is still asleep when Larry wakes up the next morning. He’s curled up tight on the couch, one hand tucked under his cheek, the other hanging over the edge of the cushion. His face is not quite slack, a little frown etched between his eyebrows like he’s perpetually stressed, even in sleep. Larry’s heart pangs. 

He sets about making breakfast. He doesn’t do it all that often - all he needs in the morning is coffee - but something tells him Freddy won’t appreciate that sentiment so he looks through his cupboards to see what he can find. In the end he makes pancake mixture and waits next to the stove in the kitchen for Freddy to wake up.

In truth, he’s almost relieved that Freddy is still asleep. As long as he’s here he isn’t out on the street, in danger and hungry and alone, and as long as he’s asleep, Larry can keep a clear head. It’s too stressful when Freddy’s awake: he’s too tempting, and Larry barely has enough strength to stay away as it is. 

He’s cute when he sleeps, though. His bangs fall across his face and they must tickle his nose because every now and then it twitches like a rabbit. Larry feels mesmerised watching him; he’s drawn over as though by magic. His fingers stroke through Freddy’s hair gently and Larry thinks maybe it’s time to wake the kid up. He’d set an alarm early in the morning so that Freddy could wake up and start work sooner rather than later, but in the end he’d decided that, right now, the boy needed sleep more than he needed money. 

So he’d let Freddy sleep, and now he wakes him up, and rests his hand on the back of the kid’s neck just to feel the soft, baby hairs at the base of his skull. 

“Morning,” Larry says, voice rough. “Did you sleep well?”

Freddy scowls, but he’s still tired so it just looks precious. “Your couch fucking sucks,” he grumbles. “I’ve slept in cardboard boxes that are more comfortable.”

“Well I’m sorry it didn’t live up to your high expectations,” Larry says, grinning already. It’s so easy to slip back into the comfortable banter he’d had with Freddy before, like the breathless temptation he’d felt last night never even happened. 

“You making breakfast?” Freddy’s eyes are drawn to the kitchen, then quickly back to Larry, pleading.

“Jeez, you act like I don’t feed you.” He very much does - the kid’s been stealing Larry’s fries for the past week, like the junk food Larry gets him isn’t quite enough. 

“What can I say?” Freddy lifts his shoulder and then drops it, a lopsided shrug. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Larry rolls his eyes. “Come on then.”

They eat the pancakes in silence. Freddy absolutely covers his with maple syrup and sticks his tongue out when Larry makes fun of him for it. He takes his coffee with milk and an ungodly amount of sugar, and he looks so comfortable in Larry’s apartment, so familiar in this place, that Larry wishes he never had to leave. 

“You mind if I take a shower before I leave?” Freddy asks. He doesn’t seem too bothered about the lost morning either, but then Larry supposes, in his line of work, cleanliness is more important than any sort of time crunch. 

“Go for it,” Larry says. “I shoulda put your clothes in the wash last night. They could have been dry by morning.”

Freddy pauses, halfway into the bathroom. He makes sudden, intense eye contact with Larry for half a second before his eyes dart to the floor and slowly, very deliberately he lifts his shirt off over his head. It drops to the floor in a pile at his feet and he kicks it over to where Larry is standing, watching, mouth dry.

“You still can,” Freddy says, still not looking at him. His hands go to the button of his jeans and Larry is still frozen. It’s far too early in the morning for him to be this fucking turned on. “I could borrow something of yours, give it back tonight. If you wouldn’t mind.”

He bends to pull his jeans down his legs and then kicks them off at the toe. Larry looks away sharp and sudden: apparently it was too much for him: the sight of Freddy, practically naked, legs skinny and bruised. 

Larry does want him to come back. He doesn’t want the kid to leave, in reality, doesn’t want him to go out and risk his life every time he pulls a john off the street. He can’t say any of that, of course, and he can’t invite Freddy to live with him. That would be ridiculous. Joe would  _ kill  _ him.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, kid,” Larry says, voice rough. He still isn’t looking, gaze fixed at some nondescript point on the far wall. 

Freddy hesitates for the first time. He wraps his arms around his waist like he’s trying to cover his bare skin, like he doesn’t want Larry to look at him any longer. That thought hurts. 

“Okay,” Freddy shrugs. “Forget it then. I can probably use a laundromat somewhere.”

“You got a place to sleep tonight?” Larry asks. It would be so easy to tell him to stay, to invite him again. It would help them both quit worrying: Freddy because he wouldn’t have to stress about finding a place to stay every night, and Larry because he wouldn’t have to fall asleep imagining the kid cold and hungry and in danger, wouldn’t have to push the guilt and longing aside.

But he can’t. He shouldn’t. He has to stay on top of things here, has to be as detached and removed and emotionless as he possibly can be, and he’s already fucked that up by getting to know Freddy in the first place. He can’t make things any worse. 

“Yeah, for sure.” Freddy doesn’t sound convincing at all. “Don’t worry about it. I got it covered, man.” 

Larry doesn’t know what to say to that without making himself sound like a nagging father figure - a position he’s already trying his best to avoid falling into - so he simply turns and leaves. The shower turns on and Larry tries to ignore the sound of running water and the thought of Freddy in there, naked. 

It doesn’t work, of course. He can’t stop thinking about what he should have done and what he still wants to do and whether or not he could fix things, right now, if he tried.

When Freddy leaves, he doesn’t look back. Larry watches him go until he turns the corner and disappears, and then he tries to ignore the regret in the pit of his stomach. 

*

Larry doesn’t see Freddy for a while, after that. He tries not to feel bad about   
it; it’s not like Freddy is his boyfriend, and it isn’t like they can exchange phone numbers either. Freddy disappearing doesn’t equal Freddy in danger, and as much as Larry wants to tear up the fucking city looking for him, he can’t. 

Jesus, how did this kid get under his skin so much? 

Larry goes to the bar every night, just like always. Sometimes he invites one of the others to come out with him - Blonde gives him the creeps and Blue never speaks anyway, but Brown is good company and even Pink can be a laugh when he’s drunk enough. Larry never tells them why he’s there so often, but he thinks they know, thinks they can tell from the way his eyes scour the bar and his shoulders droop every time the door opens and it isn’t Freddy that comes inside. He wishes he’d thought of some way to contact the kid, even if by fucking smoke signal. He wonders, late at night when he feels the kid’s absence worst of all, if Freddy has found someone else to shadow.

That’s the worst thought of all, but Larry can’t help it, can’t stop the growing suspicion. Was he just a play? Just another asshole with cash? He must have been an easy target for Freddy to sink his teeth into: it was obvious he was pining after the kid from the first time he saw him. 

Larry doesn’t  _ want  _ to believe it, but it keeps him up at night all the same.

And then, one day, Larry is in the bar and Freddy comes in with a limp.

Larry almost can’t believe it, because even though it’s only been a week, it seems like she’s since he last saw the kid. He’s different now, walking different, shoulders hunched around his ears, dragging his left foot behind him a little with every step he takes. The dim lighting of the bar can’t hide the black-blue bruise circling his eye, the thin, jagged cut across his cheekbone that seems to shine in the darkness. 

It happens in a flash, or it seems to anyway. Larry is breathless with worry, with fury, with a hopeless desire to protect Freddy from wherever hurt him. Freddy sees him from across the room and he’s too far away for Larry to tell what kind of expression crosses his face but then he’s moving, pushing slowly through the crowd towards him.

“Mr White,” Freddy says before he’s even reached the table, and then Larry’s standing up and Freddy falls into his arms, his legs just give out and Larry is holding him there with one arm under the kid’s armpit to keep him upright and the other resting on the back of his head where he pushes his face into Larry’s chest. 

“Jesus, kid,” Larry says, heart beating out of his chest and he wonders if Freddy can hear it. “What the fuck happened to you?”

Freddy wraps his arms around Larry’s waist and stays silent. Larry thinks he detects the smallest shake of the kid’s head, which he takes to mean, ‘not here, not yet’. He throws a few bills down on the table without thinking about it and leads Freddy towards the door; it seems that they’ve both had the same idea at the same time. They’re going back to Larry’s apartment.

Freddy kind of staggers the whole way back, and Larry wonders what other injuries he has hiding under his clothes, and whether or not he’ll let Larry take a look at them.

When they get home, Freddy heads automatically for the sofa. He seems ready to collapse onto the cushions and go to sleep, but Larry stops him with a gentle hand on his lower back, and instead guides him towards the bedroom, the one room Freddy never saw last time he was here. Larry is probably making a colossal fucking mistake, but he just can’t bring himself to care. 

“You’re gonna have to tell me what happened, kid,” Larry says, sitting on the edge of the bed and working Freddy’s shoes off one after the other. He’s wearing socks that have more holes than fabric, and for some reason that has Larry’s heart aching. This feels hopelessly domestic.

Freddy groans and throws an arm across his face. “I just got mugged,” he says. “It’s not a big deal.”

Larry only hesitates for a second. He’s done keeping his guard up around the kid. “It wasn’t a client, then?”

“No. They’re not all assholes, y’know? Some of them are just regular guys.”

“Regular guys that pay to fuck you,” Larry says, scoffing. He knows it’s the wrong thing to say as soon as the words leave his mouth, and then Freddy is struggling upright, propping himself up on his elbows and glaring.

“What does that make me, then?” He demands, eyes flashing with anger. “If they’re so fucked up and disgusting for paying for it, what am I, for selling it?”

Larry looks away, can’t cope with the intensity of Freddy’s stare. He can only be nineteen or twenty, but his eyes show an old soul, and it terrifies Larry. 

“Sorry,” he says, quiet. His hand returns to Freddy’s ankle and he strokes over the bone there, gentle back-and-forth motions with his thumb until Freddy relaxes and lies down again. “You’re not fucked up, Freddy.”

There’s a contemplative moment of silence, and then Freddy speaking in a small voice. “I am. I’m disgusting.”

“No.”

“Don’t just say  _ no.  _ What do you fucking know about it anyway?” He sounds close to tears. Larry should ask if he’s still hurting, if he needs help or to go to a hospital or even just a handful of painkillers, but he can’t. All he can do is sit there and watch the steady ride and fall of Freddy’s chest, terrified that if he looks away, even for just a second, it’ll stop. 

“I know you,” Larry says. “And that’s all I need to know.”

“You really don’t,” Freddy says. “Know me, I mean. You wouldn’t want to if you did.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Larry can’t cope with the distance between them any longer. He kicks off his own shoes and crawls into bed beside Freddy, fully clothed and laying above the duvet. Freddy groans and turns on his side; it takes Larry by surprise, takes his breath away, the ease with which Freddy just accommodates to him. He doesn’t hesitate, just turns around and pushes his face into the crook of Larry’s neck, takes his wrist in his hand and draws Larry’s arm over his waist so that they’re holding each other. Larry never wants to forget what this feels like: to have the kid safe in his arms. 

“Mr White?” Freddy asks, words muffled against Larry’s skin. “I don’t want you to go.”

Larry sighs. He brings his other hand up to stroke through Freddy’s hair and says, “Go to sleep, darling. I’ve got you.” He doesn’t say what he wants to say, what he’s scared to say: that he doesn’t want to go either. 

*

Freddy sleeps over a lot more after that. He’s there almost every night for the rest of that week, lurking in the kitchen when Larry is eating like a dog begging for scraps. Sometimes he’ll start out on the sofa and then Larry will wake up at some point in the night to Freddy sliding into bed beside him, pressing his cold feet against Larry and tangling their legs together. Other times they’ll give up the pretence altogether and Freddy will curl up in bed before Larry has even brushed his teeth. 

They hardly ever touch, except at night. In the day they move around each other on tiptoes, and the closest they get is when their arms brush as they pass in the hall. Freddy seems skittish and tense, and he always takes a shower when he gets home. At night, though, when they’re lying side by side in bed, he’ll curl up close and take Larry’s hand in his, lay his head on Larry’s chest and listen to the steady  _ thump thump  _ of his heart until he falls asleep. Larry knows they can only keep this up for so long.

*

The night of the hit Freddy is terrified. He’s on the verge of tears, Larry can tell, and he practically refuses to let go of Larry’s hand when he tries to leave the apartment. He begs him to stay, to be here and be safe; Larry just refuses gently, kisses his forehead. He doesn’t have the heart to tell the kid that they’re both dead anyway, if he doesn’t go. 

It’s a success, of course, because Joe’s hits are always successful. They get the diamonds and they get the fuck out. There are a few shots fired off and one man hit, but it’s only a flesh wound and all of Joe’s men are fine, so Larry decides not to lose too much sleep over it. They meet up in the warehouse like they’d planned to, and by the time Larry arrives with Pink and Blonde, the others are already there.

“Good fucking job, kid,” Joe grins, clasping a hand over Larry’s shoulder and shaking him a little. “You did good in there. I knew you would, knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

“This was a good one,” Larry says. “Thanks for getting me in. You got any plans for after?”

Joe shrugs, lights up a cigarette. “I’m gonna take my cut and fuck off. Hawaii, maybe. Somewhere warm, lay low for a while, y’know? How about you?”

Larry thinks of Freddy at home, probably still awake, still worried, wishing he could pick up a phone and give Larry a call. His heart aches.

“I don’t know yet,” he says eventually, shrugging. “I haven’t decided.” Larry has to avoid eye contact, because Joe is giving him a knowing stare and he can’t stand how intense it is. 

“You want my advice, kid?” Joe asks. He glances over his shoulder to where the others are gathered, and Larry follows his line of sight automatically, nervously. 

“Why not. You’re always good for it.”

Joe laughs. “Take the money and get out of here as soon as possible. Leave everything behind. You can’t afford any extra baggage, Larry. None of us can, but you’ve got more to lose than the rest of them. More hits on your back, you understand?”

“I understand.” And he does. It doesn’t matter that it hurts like a knife through his chest every time he thinks about it, because he gets Joe’s point loud and clear. Lose the fucking baggage.

*

He decides, on the way home, that that’s what he’s going to do, and spends the rest of the walk trying to talk himself out of it. 

*

Freddy is awake when he gets back, waiting for him on the couch with his knees drawn to his chest and his arms wrapped around them, small and scared. His eyes are bloodshot, like he only stopped crying a while ago. When Larry first walks in Freddy looks up, eyes wide for a moment like he can’t quite believe it. Then he’s up and hurling himself into Larry’s arms, legs wrapped around his waist, arms flung over his shoulders. 

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” Freddy murmurs into Larry’s neck. “I didn’t know whether you were coming back or not. You could have  _ died.” _

“I’m here,” Larry says. He drops the bag with the diamonds to the floor like they’re nothing, and his hands come up to support Freddy in his arms. “I’m here, I’m back. I’ve got you, kid.”

“How did it go? Are you okay? What happened? Are you leaving right now?”

“Jesus, kid, slow down.” Larry eases Freddy back to the ground and holds his hands up, slumps onto the sofa, rubbing a hand over his face. He’s exhausted. He wants nothing more than to collapse into bed, close his eyes and fall asleep. “One question at a time. I’m not leaving tonight.” 

Freddy hasn’t moved, he’s still standing there watching Larry expectantly, so he elaborates.

“I go tomorrow morning. I have a bus ticket booked and then I’m off.”

“Where are you going?”

Larry’s silence is telling, and Freddy looks away sharply, hurt.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Yeah, fair enough. Congratulations, man. On the job, I mean. You deserve it. I hope…” he trails off. His eyes are big and shiny with tears. “I hope you get to go somewhere nice.”

He turns to leave, and Larry knows that he isn’t just going back to the bedroom this time. He’s heading for the door, and if he goes now, Larry will never see him again. 

“Freddy,” Larry says, and then stops. He hasn’t thought of what he wants to say yet, just knows that he doesn’t want to see Freddy leave, doesn’t want to have to watch him walk away again. 

Freddy half turns, hand resting on the doorframe. He looks hopeful, when he looks at Larry, and all of a sudden it’s clear what he should say.

“My name,” he says. “It’s Larry. Call me Mr White one more time and I’ll lose my goddamn mind.”

Freddy stills, silent and shocked. His lips are ever so slightly parted, his eyes round. One second he’s in the doorway, and the next he’s flinging himself at Larry again, only this time he isn’t content with just a hug.

“Larry,” he says, one hand on the back of Larry’s neck, urging him down. “Larry, please.”

“Freddy–”

“Please,” Freddy repeats, and Larry can tell with the way his voice wavers that he’s crying. “Just one night. We only have one night– please.”

One night, Larry thinks. He can have this if it’s only for one night.

Ever so gently, he takes Freddy’s chin between his forefinger and his thumb and he tilts his face up, presses their lips together soft and slow. Freddy’s mouth is warm and sweet against his own, and he moans so fucking pretty when Larry takes him by the waist and walks him backwards until he hits the wall.

“Larry,” Freddy says like he can’t stop, the word ghosting across Larry’s mouth. “Please.” It seems to be all he can say. 

“I’ve got you, darling.” Larry kisses him again, different this time, kisses him dirty until his breath is hitching and he’s pressing his cock against Larry’s thigh. He’s hard now, and Larry grinds into him just to hear the pretty noises he comes out with. 

As he takes Freddy to bed, he thinks about the people who have done this before him, the people who’ve paid to do this. He wonders if they were rough with him, if he enjoyed it like that, or if he prefers it like this. There’s something dark and possessive about that feeling that has his dick hard in his pants, but he doesn’t like the guilt that swirls in the pit of his stomach, so he tries to banish it to the back of his mind. Larry is so fucking sold on the kid that he doesn’t think he could do anything other than soft and slow and sweet right now, for his own sake.

“Quick, c’mon,” Freddy is saying, his hands working the buttons on Larry’s shirt. He’s overeager and desperate and fucking beautiful like that, with his hair tousled and his chest heaving. Larry lays a hand flat over his chest, over his heart, and scratches lightly, watching the lines fade to faint pink marks. 

“Easy,” Larry laughs, kissing down Freddy’s chest. Somewhere between the living room and the bedroom he lost his jeans, and when Larry gets to the waistband of Freddy’s underwear he lays a hand over his cock. “There’s no rush, kid. We’ve got all night.”

He almost winces at that, at the mere mention of their one last night together, but Freddy seems too distracted to notice.

“Fuck, but I need you,” Freddy says, whining. 

“Look at you.” Larry kisses the inside of Freddy’s thighs, watching him tremble. “You’re beautiful, kid. Anyone ever tell you that? You’re fuckin’ beautiful.”

Freddy laughs breathlessly. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “All the time.” His laugh cuts off on a sharp inhale when Larry eases his boxers down over his hips and slides his lips over the head of Freddy’s cock. Freddy shuts his eyes tight as Larry strokes him, rutting into his fist like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. 

“What do you want?” Larry asks, voice hoarse. “You just have to tell me, sweetheart. You want me to make you come like this?”

Freddy bites his lip and moans, but he’s already shaking his head. “Fuck me,” he says, voice shaking. “God, Larry, fuck me. C’mon.”

Larry gets a hand on Freddy’s thighs and spreads his legs gently. When he presses the tips of his fingers to Freddy’s hole, they slide in easy. 

“You don’t need to,” Freddy says breathlessly. “Come on. I can take it, you know I can.”

“Wanna take my time with you,” Larry replies, but even as he says it he’s wrestling with the zipper of his own trousers. “It’s not a competition, kid.”

“Fuck you. It is and I’m winning,” Freddy huffs out a laugh.

“If you say so.”

Freddy groans - frustration this time, and Larry can’t hold back a snicker - and pushes Larry backwards by his shoulders. When Larry is flat on the bed Freddy straddles his hips.

“Jesus, kid.” Larry grins.

“You complaining?”

“Not on your fucking life.”

Freddy leans down to kiss Larry, slow and deep, and at the same time sinks down onto Larry’s cock inch by inch. His mouth falls open and his breath comes out in desperate pants against Larry’s neck. He pushes his forehead against Larry’s shoulder and bites down, tilting his hips. He looks so fucking beautiful like that, taking what he wants, hair falling across his forehead, face all screwed up in pleasure. Larry digs his heels into the mattress and fucks into Freddy, sharp and mean.

“Larry,” Freddy says, and gasps.

Larry pushes himself up and curls a hand around the back of Freddy’s neck, flipping them carefully so that Freddy is on his back now, and Larry can push his knees to his chest. Freddy digs his nails into Larry’s back and leaves sharp, stinging scratches as Larry fucks him, one hand on his hip, one braced on the bed. 

Larry knows when Freddy’s going to come, because his moans go breathy and high pitched. He bites down on his fist to muffle the noise, but before he can, Larry is sure that he hears the kid say, “Don’t leave me.” Larry comes with his mouth against Freddy’s. 

After, when they’re laying side by side trying to catch their breath, Freddy rests his head on Larry’s arm until it goes numb. He listens to the steady, even inhale-exhale of Freddy’s breathing as it slows, as he falls asleep. There’s so much he wishes he could say; for the first time in years, he finds himself wishing he could turn back the clocks to before he even took the job. He’d wasted so much time...

Maybe Larry is an idiot for ever thinking he could be content with just one night, for deluding himself into believing that he could give this up. He thinks of leaving and he feels sick, feels like he’d be leaving a part of himself behind to die.

His ride leaves early, and he doesn’t have much to pack. Before he’d gotten home, before he’d even set off, he’d been planning on leaving before Freddy woke up. It would be easier that way, he’d told himself, if they didn’t have to deal with the goodbye.

Now, he looks at Freddy’s sleeping face, strokes the kid’s hair, and thinks that he’d never have been able to do it. Even if this hasn’t happened, he’d never have been able to leave like that. Not without saying goodbye.

“Freddy,” he says, low and insistent, shaking Freddy’s shoulder. He blinks awake, slow and bleary. 

“Larry?” He says, the word still new and exciting on his tongue. “What’s going on?” He frowns slightly, eyebrows drawn together, and then the confusion clears. “Oh,” he says. “Are you leaving? Are you going right now?”

“I have to.” Larry feels sick. “I have to go. I didn’t want to…”

Didn’t want to what? He can’t think of anything to make this better.

“Okay,” Freddy says, sitting up slowly and bringing his knees to his chest. “Do I need to leave?”

Larry can’t say anything. He’s afraid that if he does he’ll cry.

“Larry? Do you want me to go?”

Fuck Joe, for making him do this job, for bringing him here and giving him this and then snatching it away.

“Larry, are you listening to me?”

_ Fuck Joe,  _ Larry thinks quick and sudden, the thought like a little jolt of electricity in his head.  _ Fuck. Joe. _

The kid knows his name now, and his face. Everything else… what does it matter?

“No,” Larry says, reaching out to cup Freddy’s face between his hands. “No, kid, I don’t want you to leave. How d’you feel about California, Freddy?”

In the darkness of the bedroom, in the light filtering in from outside, Larry sees Freddy start to smile. 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! <3
> 
> I’m on tumblr @tiigixox


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